The Holy Bullet (10 page)

“Affirmative,” Thompson continued, checking a note he had written in a small notebook with a hard black cover. “Member of the OSS from 1943 until the end of the war, recruited by the agency when it was founded.”

“One of the founders,” Barnes remembered, speaking more to himself than the others, remembering his own career up to now, to director of the CIA, here at Amsterdam Centraal. A lot of sweat and blood spilled, life in danger many times, and the loss. The loss of everything, family, women, normal life . . .
The company demands exclusive commitment
. It was what he was in the habit of thinking on lonely nights to justify what he had lost. The truth was he wouldn’t know how to live any other way. When a man had a level of information as elevated as Geoffrey Barnes, with the power and responsibilities inherent in the position, he no longer had a life of his own.
It’s a cross to bear
. His cross, the cross everyone carries each in his own way, some heavier than others. No one had any notion of what it was like to be a Geoffrey Barnes, what it was to have his work, what it was to know what he knows. No wife, dedicated as she might be, would have the temperament to wait endless nights, trying not to think about whether she would see her husband alive again. It was hard to work for the agency, but just as hard being the wife of an agency employee. As Jerome Staughton could attest, with his two failed marriages, thirty crappy years. You had to be a son of a bitch, as mean as a cobra, a bastard until the day you said “enough.”

“Right,” Thompson noted. “He studied law at Yale at the same time he turned into a valuable resource for the CIA. He left the service in ’ninety-two and traveled around the world. Ah, and do you want to know something interesting?”

“That’s what we’re here for. For tragic events I could have stayed home.”

“He was a member of Skull and Bones. Initiated the same year as Bush the father.”

“What an SOB.”

“Who?” Thompson asked curiously.

“Neither. It’s just an expression,” Staughton explained, always prepared to save Barnes from his own mouth. “If I say you’re an SOB, I’m not insulting you really. Understand? It’s just an expression.”

“Okay.”

“A member of Skull and Bones,” Barnes repeated thoughtfully.

“What is Skull and Bones?” Staughton asked. “Some club? A fraternity?”

“What do you mean, what is Skull and Bones?” Barnes was scandalized by such ignorance.

“I wasn’t hired for my knowledge of culture,” Staughton replied by way of excusing himself.

“Skull and Bones is a secret society. Or better,
the
secret society of our country,” Thompson explained.

“Like P2?”

“No, not at all,” Barnes answered. “No. P2 is different.” He reflected for a few moments. “If we ranked every secret society, P2 would command them all, including Skull and Bones.”

“But, according to Thompson, Skull and Bones has influential members. I heard talk of a president,” Staughton argued, truly curious.

“Yes. In truth there are two. Bush the son has been a member since ’sixty-eight,” Thompson added.

“Let me see if I can make myself understood.” Barnes stopped to moderate the question.

The allusion to P2, the Italian Masonic lodge whose complete name was Propaganda Due, had to do with a case that occurred a year earlier that brought together these three men in a massive investigation that ended in nothing, according to Barnes. Propaganda Due was one of the most cited special collaborators with the agency, and the millions in funds they had received from Langley for more than thirty years gave their leaders a privileged relationship, often confusing as to which one was in charge of the other. The power of this lodge was enormous, greater than some presidents, prime ministers. In reality P2 had enough power to install governments or bring them down when they didn’t serve their interests. They disposed of lives as it served them, including popes, as John Paul I would testify, if he were still with us. Skull and Bones was a minor league club, a game for rich students, compared with P2, even though it consisted of influential members always under the control of those who really gave the orders. And those people didn’t appear on television reports.

“But the chief said P2 commands
almost
all the rest,” Staughton interrupted. “The ‘almost’ is missing.”

Barnes looked down on the two men from his imposing height. They resumed walking to the place where the crime was committed eighteen hours ago. Dutch police tape set off the area, including the door to the bathroom. A uniformed officer was on guard at the door to ensure that only those authorized entered.

“All right, you fools, who orders everything and everyone?”

“Who?” Thompson asked, unable to answer.

“Opus Dei,” the chief concluded.

He showed his FBI badge to the guard and entered the crime scene, leaving his subordinates with their mouths open looking at each other.

“Opus Dei?” they both said at once.

They finally joined Barnes moments later, not knowing if what he had said was true or not. It was time to set aside the general subject of power and concentrate on finding the assassin or assassins of Solomon Keys.

“Here we are,” said Barnes, looking at the ample space. Urinals to the right, stalls with doors to the left. A passage separated them. The yellowish tiles couldn’t hide the passage of time. Once they were pure white, an indisputable choice for bathrooms, a symbol of health and luxury at the same time. They found the objects of their investigation in the fourth and fifth stalls. Blood spread from the walls to the floor, more in the fourth than the fifth. The door of the fifth had three bullet holes that formed an irregular triangle. A bloodstain lay over the wall that supported the water tank. A few tiles were broken on the left side of the same wall.

“This is where they killed our man,” Thompson informed them.

They all stared in silence, looking for clues. The smallest detail spoke to them, intent on answering their questions. Who? Why?

“What a shitty way to die,” Barnes vented his feelings.

“Yeah, it is. And, according to the Dutch report, with his pants around his ankles. Literally,” Thompson added.

“You can’t even shit in peace,” Barnes said, closely examining the place.

“Here in the other stall was an English couple. Like our man, they were waiting for the train to Hoek van Holland.”

“When I die, I want to go like that,” Barnes joked, flashing a sarcastic smile.

“How do you know that’s what they were doing?” Staughton asked.

“I’m a quick study,” Barnes advised. “There aren’t any same-sex bathrooms here.”

A light went on in Staughton’s mind. Of course, it was obvious.

“And these shots in the door?” Barnes questioned Thompson.

“It seems Keys was killed with the door closed. At least it was found locked from inside. One shot hit his chest, the other his head, and the third buried itself in the tiles.”

Barnes looked at Thompson and then at the doors.

“The door was closed?” He shut the door with the bullet holes and analyzed it more carefully. Then he passed to the other door. “Where did the other two get the shots?”

“Oh, one shot each in the head. Very clean,” Thompson told him.

An open door, a shut door. Barnes’s mind seethed with equations and hard thinking. Things were never what they appeared. There were always variants and exceptions, accidents and imponderables, things difficult to connect and understand.

“What are you thinking, Staughton?” his chief asked him.

A professional, Staughton was unfazed. With Barnes he always had to be on top of things, fearlessly decisive, prepared to take the shots, figuratively of course. Field work had never been Staughton’s strong suit, and his contribution was to present solutions without having to be in the place where they were worked out in concrete detail. Obviously he’d prefer never to leave London, the Center of Operations. But excursions like this to Amsterdam didn’t bother him. There were much more dangerous things in this world.

“If the report is correct, and everything happened as we hear—”

“Don’t bullshit,” Barnes interrupted. He had no patience for playing around.

“I’d say Mr. Solomon Keys was collateral damage,” he concluded.

“He was what?” Thompson said, astonished.

“It looks like it to me, too,” Barnes supported his associate.

“How can you come to that conclusion?” Thompson insisted, still stunned.

“Staughton, do us the favor . . .” Barnes authorized his subordinate to present the theory.

“It’s not a conclusion, obviously, just a theory,” Staughton cautioned. Things should always be explicit in order to avoid confusion and mistakes. “If the facts you’ve given are correct”—he looked at Thompson, who affirmed with a nod the trustworthiness of his facts—“we are dealing, almost certainly, with collateral damage. The door of the toilet where the couple was found was open and doesn’t show bullet holes. Besides it doesn’t show any signs of being forced. The lock is intact, as it should be.” He pointed at the catch on door number four, which showed no sign of violence. “That is, whatever they were doing . . .”

“They were definitely fucking,” Barnes murmured to himself while gesturing toward Thompson with a vicious smile.

“. . . they must have been so immersed in their affairs, they didn’t bother to lock the door from the inside. The other door confirms that it was closed from inside, and the murderer didn’t trouble himself to throw it open. He let off three shots, and everything was over.”

“I don’t know where you are going with this,” Thompson said, confused.

“It’s simple, Thompson. Whoever did this was not worried about the old man. He didn’t even take the trouble to make sure he was dead, or see who he was. It didn’t matter to him. I say Keys was already inside when the couple entered. Later the murderer entered, opened their door, and shot them. Since Keys’s door was locked, he assumed there was someone inside. He got off three shots and got out of there. In summary, this was for them”—Staughton pointed to door four—“and not for him.”

“Do you know their identities?” Barnes asked Thompson. He obviously supported Staughton’s theory.

“It’s here,” Thompson announced, handing him a paper with the identifications.

Barnes looked at the names. Two unknown people, male and female, both dead in the course of their pleasure. Barnes didn’t hold back his smile, imagining them releasing their fluids and energy, and, suddenly,
poom, poom,
or better,
puff, puff,
since no one in the entire station heard anything resembling a shot. He was carrying a silencer. Solomon Keys on the other side, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, maybe even excited, to the extent permitted at eighty-seven, by the madness he must have been listening to and trying to imagine, and then suddenly, nothing. Probably he heard the bodies falling helplessly, and, later, silence, only silence. He bet not even breathing was heard from either of them. What a fucked-up way to die. A man who gave everything for his country. There was no justice. Barnes felt humiliated for Solomon Keys, for himself, since no one knows how he’s going to cross over to the other side. Dead, that’s for sure, you arrive dead, but the ultimate moment, that last moment, of the last breath, how many are going to have the serenity, the perspicacity to feel it, to know it has arrived and to say good-bye? The moment of
poof, poof, poof,
for Solomon Keys with his pants down. The bastard finished him off. There was no justice. He was collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no worse luck than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everything was tolerable except that. But who had the power to divine what places are wrong or right? The English couple was the reason for the crime. The killer was after them.

“Oh, shit,” Barnes cursed.

“What’s the matter, Chief ?” Thompson wanted to know.

“Do you recognize one of these names?” Barnes asked, passing the identification page to Staughton.

Not waiting for an answer, Barnes took out his cell phone and made a call.

“Oh, no,” Staughton let escape.

“What’s going on? Somebody tell me,” Thompson kept asking, angry at not recognizing any of the names.

“It’s Barnes.” He identified himself as soon as the call was answered. “I want to report a homicide.” He waited a few moments. “Call him, please.” For a moment he appeared to be listening to what the party on the other end of the call was saying. “I don’t care if he’s busy. Call him immediately and cut the shit. There has been a murder, but that’s the least of our problems.”

L
et us return to the gears and solitary wheels that only know their part, ignorant of the final result. Let us speak about Sarah Monteiro and the whirlwind that invaded her, the call from her father and JC, strange and worrying, the two together in the same house. How anxious must Raul Brandão Monteiro feel? Certainly her father’s voice sounded stressed. She sensed no sorrow, but who knew the reality of anything concerning JC? He was the one who seemed to know everything and everyone and disposed of everything and everyone as he wished. He was the designer of the gears, the engineer and constructor, the one who created the movements of toothed wheels, chains, belts, now toward one side, now another. Everything danced to his music; Sarah was sure of that. She owed her position as editor of international politics at the
Times
to him, as well as the correct news forecasts. Even absent, he was always present during the last year, whispering stories in her ear, the shadow that dissipated when she looked over her shoulder. But not today, not now when she heard his voice again. To stay to see his sentence carried out was not an option. Better to comply with his instructions and figure it out later.

The taxi took her to her new place in Chelsea, a two-story house with lots of space and a dream view for someone who liked buildings and the river with its brown water. After that night a year ago, she hadn’t been able to set foot inside her old house in Belgrave Road again. The scenes constantly came to mind, and she recalled them all too intensely. How everyone looked suspicious, even ordinary pedestrians she saw through the window. The man with a garbage bag, the woman talking on a telephone who was always looking out the second-floor window of the Holiday Inn Express, in front, the 24 bus stop, the black car with tinted windows parked in the street, the man who broke into her house with a gun pointed at her, and the two mysterious shots that left holes in the window of her old bathroom and two deadly wounds in the man who came to bring her down. Only later did she realize who’d helped her, who killed the assassin who came to kill her. She thought about him often, although she’d never seen him again. He appeared to her every night freeing her from the nightmares, from the image of JC, from the other well-dressed man, from the shots, the deaths, the malignant laughter, the evil acts. It was always him coming to lie down with her, every night, murmuring lullabies in her ear, until Sarah woke up in the morning, calm and serene, a smile on her lips, alone, with no one. The monsters returned every night, the same images, people, faces, the same bullets, deaths, the last night in the house on Belgrave Road, the gun pointed at her, the final moments of a short life, and he who returned to her side, murmuring lullabies until she slept again. After that she went to live temporarily in the studio apartment of her friend and colleague Natalie Golden on Pentonville Road. Later she rented another studio on Polygon Road, until her recent employment gave her the financial security to lease a new place. She wouldn’t have it if it weren’t for him, or be in this taxi, nor would Simon Lloyd be her intern seated at her side with a look of happiness in his eyes.